


tread lightly past gravestone

by antagonists



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:02:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7699225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You didn’t do anything about those buggers,” Reyes grouses the next time they meet. Winter has started to settle in, peppering snow over the sidewalks and leaving remnants of her frosty touch over the glass windows. They sit in a toasty café. Jack orders coffee and a biscuit, and Reyes sips at tea. No milk, no sugar. “I even sent you a nice, long letter explaining them, too. Is your skull as thick as your wallet?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	tread lightly past gravestone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starredlion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starredlion/gifts).



> i dont trust google so i had noé translate this for me: isso é pro niver da lia, espero que goste sua puta cara de cu
> 
> pile heaps of thanks on [eli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Archedes/pseuds/Archedes) for beta-ing my messy ass

*

 

 

There is something both nice and unnerving, Jack soon decides, on being sent out on a mission in the middle of a graveyard alone. Had someone been with him, he might’ve grown distracted with the minute sound of his partner’s footfalls, their breathing. Although he has grown used to the decrepit state of many of the locations he’s sent to, he hasn’t yet grown numb to the prickle of unease at the stagnant atmosphere. It is adamantly silent. He can hear his heartbeat over the wind through weathered gravestones.

 

Something vile sleeps, here, in the midst of the resting dead.

 

He’s been chasing leads for several nights now. Cemeteries have often been a source for the Watch’s grievances, but most encounters have been fairly tame as of late. Personally, he blames the seasons; chilly autumns always seems to attract hordes of demons from their hiding places. There’s something about cold weather that attracts otherworlders, maybe. It would explain the constant battles on the Siberian front, and also the unending conflicts at the South Pole. He’s glad he isn’t based around the more extreme climates.

 

Jack eyes the withered husk of an oak tree, then glances up at the waning moon. It looks sickly, yellow and mourning in the cloudy sky. Her light is more garish than comforting over the field of trimmed grass and stone angels, a low-hanging presence that would look gorgeous on any other night. Nothing seems quite out of place until he steps past a few stray leaves and smells the miasma. Newer recruits might’ve gagged at the stench, but he merely wrinkles his nose and continues his path.

 

Fetid. Must be about a dozen half-formed demons waiting for the new moon.

 

He moves quickly, tagging the perimeter with purifying salts and temporary wards. The spells glow over pockmarked marble for a brief moment before fading completely, and he breathes a sigh of relief once he’s finished rounding the area. He should be able to take each of them down methodically, reading their positions from their smoky remnants. The challenge is finding the first one—everything else will be easy.

 

It is, for the most part, a very simple job. He’s bound eleven demons by tapping spelltags onto their disfigured heads, and is about to mark the next when a sudden noise catches him off guard.

 

A flutter of wings, a flash of golden eyes from the tree to his left. In the split second he takes to recognize the creature’s avian shape, the demon before him stirs.

 

For a few seconds, he stares into the slit pupils in silent awe. The demon’s shriek sends him scurrying for cover, diving out of the way as soon as an ebony limb strikes the ground where he’d been crouching. Jack curses under his breath. Without the element of surprise, he has a significant disadvantage. This demon might not even be the last one here, and if there are others, they’re definitely awake now.

 

There’s the fluttering noise again. Jack glimpses a feathered mass striking the demon’s eyes, talons outstretched. He throws the tag as soon as the demon kneels to claw at its own face. The demon’s flesh disintegrates at the spell’s touch, and before he can dart forward to land a final blow between its teeth, something falls from the sky and shrouds the surrounding area in dark smoke. The target falls silent, and the cemetery is plunged into an eerie quiet.

 

No other demons, then. He exhales slowly.

 

“You sure make a lot of noise doing your job,” says a rich-voiced man. Jack holds back a shiver; there’s something malicious in those words, something dangerous. He might also have a weak spot for gruff, morbid voices.

 

Jack fingers the spelltag between his thumb and forefinger. Small comfort, since they’re only really effective on otherworlders. On anything else, it’ll look like a strange paper decoration. The smoke clears slightly, and he can make out the hazy figure of a tall, imposing man. There’s a large bird perched on his shoulder. It ruffles its feathers and coos innocently.

 

 _Little pest_ , Jack thinks, recognizing it immediately.

 

“If it hadn’t been for your pet,” he says irritably, “I would have been fine.”

 

“She’s not a _pet_.” The man scoffs, offended. “She’s my familiar, far above those poor domesticated beasts you call pets.”

 

“Your _familiar_ ,” Jack replies, squinting in an effort to see through the remaining smoke, “was a distraction.”

 

Even with the glare of moonlight, the man’s skin is dark, thick hair a mess of curls atop his head. His eyes glimmer with residual magic and Jack has to blink away his initial surprise. It’s hard to actually see the man’s face, but the sturdy set of his jaw and angle of his cheekbones suggest good looks. There are patches of uneven skin where scars run deep and long, reminders of less fortunate times.

 

Jack’s boots scrape over the grass, squeaking from the dew as he stands straight. He figures that if the man had intentions to kill him, he would’ve let the demon maul him to pieces. “What are you doing here anyways? This place isn’t open to public this late.”

 

The man scowls. “I was minding my own business here. Your ruckus _distracted_ me, Morrison.”

 

Jack starts at that, takes a wary step back.

 

“How do you know my name?”

 

Smug, the man holds up Jack’s keys, nametag dangling harmlessly from the tricolored braid Lena had made. His teeth glint silver, sharp and white. The owl on his shoulder hoots softly and ruffles its wings, obviously pleased with its findings.

 

“I need those,” Jack says, watching the owl with a small frown. Its beady eyes appear black now, but he knows that they could glint just as brightly as they had before with minimal prompting. He’s not too well-versed in a familiar’s behavior, and after having seen the owl gouge out the demon’s half-formed eyes, he’s not too keen on angering either the man or his bird.

 

With a wry smirk, the stranger tosses the keys over to Jack. For a moment he stares flatly at something past Jack, but seems to dismiss whatever he sees as no threat. Jack eyes the width of those shoulders—not delicate, might be some sort of soldier. He hasn’t ever seen the stranger before, though, so he must not be affiliated with anyone Jack knows.

 

“Don’t make such amateur mistakes next time,” he calls over his shoulder to Jack as he walks away. One step past a grave and he vanishes into a whorl of shadowy mist, leaving Jack to gape at the empty night.

 

 

*

 

 

Jack submits the mission report as soon as he returns and finishes writing it, omitting the details of meeting a handsome stranger with an owl familiar. There aren’t many who can contract with demons aside from a select few, since lesser ones can still overwhelm inexperienced wielders. He’d been offered a contract, once, when he’d first joined the Watch, to a greater wolf spirit. Jack doesn’t like the idea of expending so much mental energy to keep a familiar bound, however, so he’d declined.

 

Some of the other recruits give him side glances for his decision, but he can’t be bothered to care about them much. He has better things to do, like pulling up files of specific documented individuals with owl familiars.

 

He clicks idly through the files, eyes flickering over the monitor as he scrolls through streams of dense text. It’s late. Or early, depending on one’s perspective—six in the morning. The sun won’t be up for another hour or two, and he’s already had two and a half cups of coffee since toeing his boots off at the front door. He eyes the empty mugs skeptically, then stares at the dust settling over the half-empty mug. When he’s unable to find anything for another few minutes, he gets up to dump what he hasn’t finished into the sink. The kitchen is a blend of shadow and the gaudy lamplight from his desk, silent save for the drip of the leaky faucet.

 

Briefly, he considers contacting one of his coworkers to search for information. Winston’s a decent bet: quiet, polite, good-natured. Lena can weed out any secrets that Winston’s hiding, though, so that might not be the best idea. After considering his options a bit longer, Jack shakes his head and sighs. He should be grateful that the assignment went more or less without any significant hitches. Given another few days, he might even forget about the incident entirely.

 

He spends minutes, what seems like hours, tossing around in bed, unable to sleep. Jack is no stranger to insomnia, but he absolutely despises being wide awake by the time sunlight starts to peek in through the slats of the blinds. Angela had once tried to prescribe him sleeping pills, but they’d caused him too much of a headache to be any good.

 

There have always been nights like these since he was a child, nights where the world takes on a peculiar and unforgiving chill. The moon has long since faded away into the lightening horizons, leaving the skies barren of visible constellations. Wrapped up in his blankets, Jack can hardly say that he’s cold, but the outside has always been less friendly.

 

Once the morning sunlight reaches his bed and leaves him unable to escape the day, Jack groans and rolls out of the bed and onto the floor. If he won’t be able to sleep, then the least he could do is get paperwork done at headquarters.

 

“Good morning, Jack!” Lena chirps as soon as he steps foot into the building. The look on his face must be all sorts of irritated, because her expression and voice softens to a more tolerable level within seconds. “Long night?”

 

Jack rubs at his face. He needs to shave. “Couldn’t sleep.”

 

“You poor thing.” Lena frowns and pats his shoulder sympathetically. She’s still wearing his awful attempt at making a friendship bracelet on her left wrist, taking pride in his efforts to actually connect with other people. Despite the early hour, she is lacking none in her usual pep and cheer. Lena has always been a morning person, usually the one zipping around with deliveries to places while everyone else is a sluggish puddle of sleep-deprivation or some wretched half-human tragedy tromping through the halls. Maybe both. “Heard your mission went well, though.”

 

“More or less, yeah.” He rubs at his face again, yawns. The paperwork in front of him blurs, words swimming together into an illegible mess.

 

“I ought to get finished with these deliveries,” she tells him, shifting the weight of the packages in her arms. When he opens his mouth to offer his help, she tuts and shushes him. “No-no-no, love, you try and get some rest for now. You know where to find me if you need me!”

 

He’s left alone once more in the commons, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and a growing headache. Pinching at the bridge of his nose doesn’t help, so he opts instead for sprawling over one of the old leather couches, tossing the paperwork aside. It smells strongly of stale coffee, probably from how many people have spilled their drinks onto it, but the smell is somewhat comforting. He closes his eyes against the bright fluorescent lights and imagines sheep prancing over a wooden gate.

 

The image dissolves into some misshapen demons with lolling tongues and eyes clouded with cataracts. Some of them lumber around like swaying, walking trees; others crawl along the ground as four-footed beasts. In front of him is a field of cracked gravestones and drooping branches. Claws and sharp beaks, ebony feathers refracting the pallid moonlight. It’s hard to breathe.

 

He opens his eyes to see Ana poring over his paperwork, long hair loose around her shoulders. The clean, sharp noise of shuffling paper fills the large space. Disoriented, Jack blinks away the last vestiges of his dream and sits up.

 

“Awake now?” she asks him, not looking up from the sheaves of paper.

 

“What time’s it?” He sounds terrible. Jack clears his throat and tries again.

 

“Just past noon, Jack,” Ana says fondly. She finally sets down the paperwork and faces him. “You’re going to have to redo all this paperwork, you realize. You really don’t do a great job of it when you’re tired.”

 

He makes some sort of pathetic noise, and Ana slides a cool palm over his forehead. “I could get Winston to redo them for me.”

 

Ana clicks her tongue and slides her hand away. “No fever. Jack, you already know he does most of the desk work around here.”

 

“How’s… Fareeha doing? Still doing well with her studies?” Arguing with Ana and trying to emerge victorious is like fighting a one-man war. He settles for rubbing at his calf. His left leg is numb, and he grits his teeth to brace for the onset of pins and needles. He does his best not to curl into a ball and lament the temporary loss of feeling in his limb.

 

“Oh, doing well, still finishing up her semester abroad. You know how she is, flighty and excited. It’ll still be a few months before she’s back.”

 

Jack sighs and reaches for his cup of coffee. It’s cold and leaves an acrid aftertaste in his throat, but he feels less groggy with the bitterness on his tongue. The headache is still there, more bearable but no less discomfiting. He glances down at his scrawl on the paper and squints, unable to decipher his own chicken scratch. “What did I even write here? Is this English?”

 

Ana pats his cheek softly, shaking her head. “You have the next few days off Jack. Get some rest before your next mission, alright? Debriefing’s tomorrow or whenever else you decide to roll in before the actual assignment.”

 

“There’ve been a lot of assignments as of late,” he croaks as she stands and brushes lint off her pants.

 

“We’re looking into it. One of the other Watchpoints may require some maintenance.”

 

Later in the evening, after hours of grousing and redoing whatever the hell his sleep-addled brain had thought logical in the morning, Jack trips over the doormat in his rush to enter his apartment. He’d done his best not to doze off for the remainder of the day, but his work had been of such poor quality that _Tobjörn_ had taken over for him. Jack stumbles to his desktop and mindlessly signs into the database, finishing whatever he couldn’t handwrite legibly that afternoon and sending files where necessary.

 

Being around company is nice sometimes, but when he’s in moods like these, working in solitude under the glow of his desktop monitor is more comfortable. He types haphazardly and gets up to retrieve coffee whenever he feels as though he’ll pass out over the keyboard. Morning finds him drooling on the table, neck aching and back sore. He stares at his unfinished work, the four empty mugs on his desk, and at the bright IM from Lena that reads: _don’t fall asleep on your computer, love!_

 

Jack mutters sleepily, dragging one hand over his stubble, and lurches his way to the unmade bed one room over. He dreams of demons crossing the gate, again, as slowly as the sun rises in winter.

 

 

*

 

 

“The man you are looking for is called Gabriel Reyes,” Genji reports as Jack is filing away documents. He’s perched on the open windowsill six stories off of the ground as if he’d clambered up from the outside. Jack isn’t really surprised since Genji has a habit of popping in unannounced and in the most random of locations, but he’s still not quite used to their solemn, tightlipped recruit. The sun has already set, making Genji seem an unwelcome ghost come to haunt him. The smooth, featureless mask doesn’t help. “Born in Los Angeles, orphaned. He has displayed unusual powers typical of a mage since youth.”

 

“In other words, he’s not an otherworlder, and he doesn’t leave much of a trail after himself either. Find out anything else?”

 

Genji shakes his head once. His armor gleams from the light on Jack’s desk. “There are limits even to my intel. Whatever else you would like to know may be better off coming from his own mouth.”

 

Jack bites back a sigh. “Alright. Thank you, Genji. I should head out now.”

 

With a tilt of his head, Genji leaps backwards from the window in lieu of simply leaving through the actual office door. Jack somewhat expects to hear the sound of him landing on the ground far below, but there is no noise aside from the rustle of falling leaves. Typical. Angela had warned him about Genji’s reticence and otherwise cold nature, but having a coworker as silent and lethal as Genji still unsettles him somewhat.

 

He knows little of what had brought Genji here, but Jack gets the feeling it’s not a bouquet of pleasant memories.

 

Checking to make sure his coat pockets are lined with spells, Jack steps out of the headquarters with the details of his new mission fresh in his mind. Solo, again. He’d requested it this time.

 

Although he’d been able to clear the nest of maturing demons in the cemetery west of here, there have been reports of minor, but recurrent spiritual activities in the city. Having an actual mage as an ally might aid them greatly, as all mages are fine-tuned to the balances between different worlds. Jack definitely doesn’t have personal motivations for this.

 

He investigates the less frequently traveled alleyways, picking his way past piles of garbage and cardboard boxes. Traces of dark magic and miasma are stronger around sewage covers, so he makes a mental note to investigate the underground passages with someone at a later time. In the corner, he spots small piles of ash. When he dips his fingers into the soot and takes a whiff, Jack makes a face at the smell. There’s burnt hair in there, somewhere, that and herbs he’s certain are used for some sinister purpose. He doesn’t remember the names—staying awake during lectures for his less brilliant subjects is a trial in and of itself.

 

Reyes finds him before Jack can start searching. The only warning Jack gets is the sound of wings behind him, and he instinctively ducks and barely avoids the talons aimed for the back of his neck. When he raises his head, the man is standing in front of him, arms crossed and scowling.

 

“You shouldn’t have ducked,” he says by way of greeting.

 

“Gabriel Reyes.” Jack replies. If the man is surprised at Jack’s sudden knowledge, he doesn’t show any sign of it. “I prefer to keep my head attached to my body, thanks.”

 

“I heard that you’ve been snooping around trying to get intel on me.” The owl nips at Reyes’ fingers, content to ignore Jack.

 

“You’re a mage,” he says. “So I figured you might know some things.”

 

“Witch.”

 

“Pardon?”

 

“I’m not a mage,” Reyes frowns, “I’m a witch. Your intel sucks.”

 

Jack stares, mouth dry. Witches aren’t exactly otherworlders, but higher elitists wouldn’t exactly consider them entirely human with the way they interact with demons so regularly. “Aren’t witches supposed to be, y’know, girls? Women? You don’t exactly have the build of what I’d expect—”

 

With a disgusted wave of his hand, the witch halts Jack’s chatter. His tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth, rendering him incapable of speech.

 

“Do you ever think before you open your mouth?” Reyes grimaces, clearly displeased.

 

Jack panics for a moment before he remembers that he’d been trained in counterspells for simple distractions like these, and he takes a calming breath before he undoes the hex, massaging his jaw. It takes a few seconds for his tongue to loosen entirely, and he makes sure that it’s no longer glued in place before he tries speaking. The witch looks impressed for all of half a second before his mean glare returns. It looks as though he’s tempted to turn Jack into a frog on the spot, but he knows that’s a myth for sure. Hopefully.

 

“I’ve never encountered a male witch before,” he says, tongue still smarting. “There’s little info on you out there, Reyes.”

 

“No, I think you’re just dumb as hell, Morrison.” The owl seems inclined to agree, clicking its beak at him. “Seeing as you made all those amateur mistakes back in the cemetery.”

 

Jack pinches at his nose. It’s like the witch can see right through him. “Look, I didn’t come here to argue.”

  
“That’s going real well, ain’t it.” Reyes nods, mocking. He shifts on his feet, and Jack notes the graceful movement of his muscles before dragging his gaze back up to eye level. Those _thighs_. Jack knows of robes being stereotypical witch garb, and Reyes’ attire is anything but. He tries not to stare, focusing instead on Reyes’ face, still dark and mysterious from the shadows. It’s not any less distracting, but at least he feels a bit better about himself for not ogling someone’s legs. “I already know what you’re after. Intel on demonic movement, hm?”

 

“Yeah. I’m sure you’re aware of recent activity.” He hopes his response doesn’t sound too distracted or delayed.

 

“Your lot doesn’t treat us as equals.” Reyes snorts, voice hard and challenging. “I’m not interested.”

 

“We’d offer you proper compensation for your work.”

 

“I said,” Reyes steps closer and enunciates clearly, expression dark, “that I’m not interested.”

 

He holds his breath at the proximity. Jack’s almost sure that he would be an embarrassed mess if it weren’t for the threatening clack of the familiar’s beak keeping him grounded to reality.

 

“Your familiar doesn’t like me.”

 

“She doesn’t like anyone; don’t think you’re special.”

 

“You chose an owl since they represent, uh, wisdom, right?” Jack’s rambling. He’s gotten better about controlling his nerves, but apparently not in the face of a witch’s beguiling nature and his equally antagonistic familiar.

 

Reyes lets out some noise that sounds like a deep, derisive laugh. Even his familiar looks disgruntled. “Owls? Wisdom? Nah, owls are _stupid_ , and you’re even dumber for believing those myths.”

 

Before he turns to leave, the witch eyes Jack again oddly, scrutinizing something over Jack’s shoulder. Unnerved, Jack glances behind him, and upon seeing nothing, fidgets under Reyes’ gaze. Murky, wicked, enthralling eyes. The owl hisses. Suddenly the alley feels much narrower than it actually is, leaving him tense and wary.

 

“Please consider it,” he says, sensing that Reyes is keen on leaving very soon. Reyes doesn’t grace him with a reply, exasperated expression dissolving into black smoke that leaves Jack coughing.

 

 

*

 

 

In the following weeks, Jack retrieves information from bases located around the world. In Siberia, things have taken a turn for the worse, and the Russian soldiers have resorted to regular combat to keep the demons at bay. From his scouting missions underground, Genji confirms the presence of miasma originating from a distant source. There hadn’t been any dead bodies, luckily, though Jack isn’t sure he should be relieved. It’s very possible that there might not have been enough left of them to find.

 

“Jaaack!” Reinhardt booms loudly, holding something in one big, meaty palm. “Something was left at the front door for you! Special delivery for Morrison! Name’s written on the box! Just for _you_!”

 

“It’s too early to be yelling, Reinhardt.” Jack reaches out for the package. It appears to be… winged?

 

“Reinhardt’s just a jolly fellow, love. Yelling is in his nature!”

 

Lena fistbumps Reinhardt, who takes visible effort to slow his hand as to not crush hers. He, too, wears a friendship bracelet that Lena had made, though his is more of a necklace on anyone else other than him or perhaps Winston. Reinhardt extends his other hand towards Jack, and the small parcel flaps indignantly to straighten out the crimped feathers in its wings. Jack gawks.

 

“ _Ooh_!” Lena whispers. “Love letter? Secret admirer? Jack, why didn’t you tell us?”

 

He has a bit of struggle getting the actual letter to open, what with the wings trying to flap in his face. He’s reminded of Reyes’ familiar as he finally manages to pry the notes from the flighty container. He sort of expects average contents, maybe even a hate-note, but is taken aback by the thick parchment and swooping, elegant letters. The wings fold neatly, stiff as a statue, and rest in his palm like a cold stone.

 

Lena and Reinhardt are both peering over his shoulders, curious.

 

“I can’t read that,” Lena says, pouting. “Just looks like scribbles to me, but the handwriting’s still beautiful, isn’t it? So who’s the lucky girl?”

 

“You can’t read it?” Jack asks, ignoring her question, pointing at the top line. “It says clearly right here: for Jack Morrison.”

  
“It appears to be cloaked!” Reinhardt muses. “Very suspicious! And Lena, didn’t you once tell me that Jack’s type was ‘tall, dark, and handsome?’”

 

“Girls can be tall, dark, and handsome too, love! But I agree, maybe for Jack it’s a different case.”

 

This is the last discussion that Jack wants to have with Lena and _Reinhardt_ of all people. He’s glad that the letter is cloaked, otherwise he’d be embarrassed with his coworkers reading the contents of the letter aloud. Who even sends old-fashioned letters nowadays? Jack is so used to reading IMs and emails on his computer that he hasn’t touched actual postage and whatnot in _years_.

 

The letter also has mostly Latin script on the page, and since Jack hasn’t studied Latin in _ages_ , he’s unable to decipher a majority of the contents on the spot. He frowns at Lena’s impish grin.

 

“It’s regarding the demonic incidents,” he clarifies, just so they don’t get any more funny ideas than they already have. It doesn’t convince them.

 

 _Little demons on your shoulders_.

 

It’s a warning of some kind. Jack checks both of his shoulders, sees only Lena and Reinhardt’s grinning faces, and sighs. He can’t read much else, so he’ll have to ask Winston for help later. He’ll bring a few jars of peanut butter as leverage, maybe, so Lena can’t pry any more than she already has.

 

Jack figures that since it’s Reyes who’d sent the letter, there won’t be anything embarrassing, but one can only be so sure. Or maybe it’s him hoping for pointless things.

 

“Little demons on your shoulders,” Winston reads, peering down his nose at Jack’s hasty scrawl. He’d had to copy the contents since no one else could see them as anything more than artistic but meaningless calligraphy. “One treads near your feet, another whispers in your ear from above. You must misplace things quite often, and your head must ache as well. It would not be surprising if you lose your footing regularly.”

 

“You’re sure that’s what it says?” Jack asks, feeling as though someone has read a list of all his bad habits to him.

 

“Of course! Uh,” Winston pushes his glasses up, peanut butter smeared on the bottom of his lip. Jack gestures politely, and the researcher wipes at his dark chin gratefully. “Thanks. Do you know who sent this letter? We’d better analyze it in case there’s a hex somewhere in the text.”

 

“I know who sent it, and it shouldn’t have anything worrying in there.” At least Jack hopes so. It’s quite plausible that the witch holds a grudge against him; he seems the type to remember every detail of every wrong done unto him.

 

“Unless the higher ups have already heard the news, I suppose you could keep it.” Winston hums thoughtfully, observing Jack through his thick glasses. “Is there anything else you wanted me to translate?”

 

“No—I think I should be able to get the rest,” Jack lies. He’ll probably spend hours poring over dictionaries, holed up in his office. “Thanks, Winston.”

 

It takes him the better portion of the night and a good chunk of early morning hours to finally properly decipher the remaining bits of the letter. He thinks that Reyes probably wrote it in Latin just to mess with him, and he’s succeeded admirably. Jack’s eyes burn with exhaustion, his hand cramps around the pencil, and he’s probably seen enough Latin to last him another few lifetimes.

 

 _On the night of the next new moon_ , the letter says, _fledglings will stir. They lay among the cold dead, pretending._

Below lines of poetry and foreboding, there’s a time and a date around a week from now. A meeting at the café down the street that Jack frequents whenever he decides that he can’t take headquarters’ bland, watery coffee anymore. He drops his head into his arms for a moment, then looks back at the pile of laundry he’s been putting off washing for days. His nice clothes are in there, somewhere. He’ll have to salvage them somehow, get them dry-cleaned so he doesn’t look like the idiot he feels he is.

 

“You’re being stupid,” he tells his tired reflection. His reflection stares back, shrugs as he does. There’s no reason to get his hopes up, but Jack has never been great about not jumping to conclusions.

 

 

*

 

 

“You didn’t do anything about those buggers,” Reyes grouses the next time they meet. Winter has started to settle in, peppering snow over the sidewalks and leaving remnants of her frosty touch over the glass windows. They sit in a toasty café. Jack orders coffee and a biscuit, and Reyes sips at tea. No milk, no sugar. “I even sent you a nice, long letter explaining them, too. Is your skull as thick as your wallet?”

 

“Well,” Jack stalls, a bit overwhelmed now that they’re meeting during the day and he can clearly see the witch’s face, “I kinda understood. Demons following me? I mean, sure, but I can’t do anything about what I can’t see.”

 

The witch gives a long-suffering sigh, rubbing at his jaw with thick, calloused fingers. He mutters something, not Latin. Maybe Spanish? Jack swallows. He’s probably just been called a variety of insults in another language he doesn’t understand, but he can’t bring himself to be angry about it. Since stepping into the café, he hasn’t been able to really stop looking at the way Reyes’ hair has gotten longer, curling around the sharp outline of his rugged face. Hell, he wants to reach out and touch it.

 

“Your familiar’s not with you,” he notes idly.

 

“She can’t follow me into public, _idiot_.” Reyes snorts. He takes another sip of his tea, watching Jack from beneath his long lashes. “Probably can’t stand your mug anyways.”

 

“I’m surprised you invited me to meet with you,” Jack continues, bouncing one leg beneath the table. “What with how you rejected me spectacularly the other night.”

 

Reyes glowers. “I’m not working for whoever the hell you’re working for, Morrison. I’m here for my own interests.”

 

“Your own interests,” Jack repeats dumbly.

 

“Look, brewing potions is serious business, a’ight? I’m not about to have these dumb demons bother me while I’m busting my ass to do good work. That’s where you come in.” When Jack continues to blink, clueless, Reyes rolls his eyes and flicks Jack’s forehead. It doesn’t sting at all; Jack is reeling with the fact that Reyes had touched him. “You’re going to lay ‘em down, Morrison.”

 

“You’re offering to send me locations of maturing demons before they awaken.”

 

Reyes claps mockingly a few times, spreads his hands in front of him, palms up. “Oh, well would you look at that. You understood me after all, big boy.” Before Jack can speak, he holds up a finger so he can finish. “I have one condition.”

 

“Of course. Conditions.” Jack nods like a bobble head toy. He feels as though he’s grasping at straws.

 

“You’re the one who has to put the demons down. I don’t trust anyone else running your gig since it’s likely that they’re less predictable than you.”

 

“Depending on the circumstances, I may or may not have to bring other agents with me.” Jack frowns, ignoring the jibe. “That’ll be fine?”

 

Reyes shrugs, nonchalant. He’s looking at Jack, but not quite _at_ Jack. He suspects that the witch is probably staring at the lesser demons that allegedly follow him around and make him a generally clumsy wreck. With any other person, Jack might’ve made the effort to dispel the demons, but he rather likes how Reyes gives him lingering looks, though they might not be focused entirely on him.

 

He wonders how Reyes got those scars of his, what he’s been through.

 

Having lesser demons trailing alongside him would explain a lot of things, too. The unprompted headaches, how he seems to trip over thin air when he’s not working, how he always manages to lose something at least once every few days.

 

“Can’t witches control demons?” he asks, genuinely curious. He’s fairly sure that witches would have more influence over the demons than he ever could. “You probably don’t need me.”

 

“Well said, Morrison.” Reyes smirks. “But _you_ need _me_.”

 

“Oh.”

 

When Jack gapes in shock, wide-eyed, the witch reaches over to tap his shoulder, a self-satisfied smile on his face. It’s dazzling. “At least the demons like you. Otherwise they’d be even more of a pain in the ass.”

 

 

*

 

 

The arrangement works surprisingly well. Jack has to submit a lot more reports than he would really like, and he’s getting the occasional look askance from other people since he hasn’t specified where he’s getting his sources. Winston can cover his tracks only for so long. It might be soon that the higher ups hear of his third-party intel source, though he’s been taking efforts to make the information seem less random and more aligned with the findings the Watch already has in the database.

 

It’s difficult; the physical dossiers that Reyes likes to send aren’t exactly subtle. The winged parcels always end up delivering themselves in some dramatic sort of manner. He begins to think that Reyes has a thing for showing off needlessly. Either that, or he’s just purposely giving Jack a hard time, which wouldn’t be completely out of the question. Had it been anyone else, Jack would’ve been hard-pressed to tolerate them.

 

He spots Winston despairing over a staggering pile of paperwork one night, glasses askew and eyes directed unseeingly at the mass of text before him. It’s strange how he doesn’t initially react to the jar of peanut butter that Jack presses to his face for a few long seconds. Normally, he would _smell_ the peanut butter before it even got carried into the room, and his distracted state warrants some worry.

 

“Winston,” Jack finally says, setting the jar down on the desk. “Bad news?”

 

It takes Winston a moment to realize someone is talking to him, then another to blink away his fatigue and actually talk. Even with Winston’s dark skin, Jack can easily see the weariness circling his eyes in deep shadows. The researcher sits back and removes his glasses, rubbing at his eyes. Based on the snack wrappers littered all around his desk, he hasn’t eaten a proper meal all day, and Jack isn’t really doing much to encourage good habits. He’ll have to ask Lena to help him make a good meal for Winston after he gets back.

 

Knowing Winston, he’ll still be working long after Jack submits his report. Many of them have built a habit of falling asleep at their desks, and Ana is always reprimanding them for it.

 

“Jack, didn’t notice you there. Sorry.”

 

“It’s alright, Winston. Is it just work getting to you, or is there something I should hear about?”

 

After unscrewing the jar lid and spitting it out, Winston heaves a mighty sigh, sagging in his chair. He pulls a spare spoon out of his shirt pocket, gazing at the peanut butter as if to ready himself. “The brass caught wind of your recent activities.”

 

“Ah.” Jack suspected it wouldn’t be much longer, but it still seems too soon. “I suppose they’re not satisfied with the results? Even though we’ve been having better success with putting down trouble before it can start.”

 

“Well, you know how they’re less concerned with how we’re doing and more interested in public image. Since no one but you knows where you’re getting your sources from, they’re scared it’ll look bad once it leaks. Press is always terrible.” Winston hums happily around a mouthful of peanut butter. “Thanks for this, by the way.”

 

“You deserve a break.” Jack pats Winston’s shoulder consolingly. Winston leans into his touch, always partial towards physical gestures, be they of compassion or for teasing purposes. “Do you think I should lie low in the meantime? It’ll be hard to look good if we’re letting demons get the better of us.”

 

“And it’ll be hard to look good if we don’t hunt them down,” Winston mopes. “Worse case of Catch-22 here I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what to do, Jack.”

 

“I could cancel my mission tonight.”

 

Winston sighs. “No, you can do your mission. I’ll handle things here for now.”

 

Jack hesitates. He doesn’t like seeing his teammates this tired, and Ana would probably get on his back for seeming inconsiderate, too. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, Winston.”

 

A crooked smile. “Another jar of peanut butter would be nice.”

 

 

*

 

 

Jack sees the witch waiting by a closed hardware store, back against the glass and head tilted back as he blows a stream of fog into the air. His shadow is long and dark over the glittering sidewalk. The weather is warming, but the nights are still cold and black. Bits of ice crunch under his boots, and if he thinks about it hard enough, it could sound like hundreds of small bones breaking, like feathers snapping into two.

 

“Reyes.”

 

“Jack,” says the witch. Jack flounders for a moment, thoughts a chaotic stampede of _he said my name!_ He stands frozen in place, fearing that if he takes a step without ample preparation, he might slip and make a further fool of himself.  “You look like you have a lot on your mind.”

 

“Boss trouble,” Jack mumbles, averting his eyes. The owl familiar swoops down from where it’d been circling, settling heavily on Jack’s shoulder with a resounding _honk_. He stares at it in mild surprise. If it hadn’t been for the grudge the owl seems to hold against him, he would think she was cute. Intimidating, maybe, with her horned appearance, but still cute. “Does she like me now?”

 

“Do people shit on people they like, Jack?” Reyes coughs, laughing behind his hand.

 

“You shit on me all the time,” Jack retorts without thinking, then notices the ugly white stain on his coat. He immediately digs around in his pocket for a handkerchief, wiping fervently at the dung as the familiar flies to her master’s outstretched arm. “Are you _serious_?”

 

He tries to be mad about it for longer, but Reyes is still smiling and _damn_ if that’s not distracting. Jack can still hear the echoes of that laugh, full and genuine. He hopes that the red over his nose and cheeks can be excused with the cold.

 

The skies are an ocean of black, glittering with the few stars that he can actually see. The moon is nowhere in sight.

 

“There’s a nest south of the park ten minutes from here,” Reyes informs, turns to face Jack when he notices him staring. “ _What_.”

 

“Nothing,” Jack says quickly, memorizing the way the witch’s jaw twitches when he’s annoyed. “Gabe.”

 

“Don’t give her another reason to shit on you,” Gabe snorts, but doesn’t argue further. Jack counts it as a victory. At the very least, he can take comfort in these small moments before daylight returns. His worries seem distant on the horizon, growing heavy only once the witch vanishes into thin air with the promise of another new moon.

 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> originally i'd planned on gabe's familiar being a barn owl  
> but eli gave me the brilliant idea of having it [honk](https://vine.co/v/ivBBJ3QlDXM) in jack's face. so
> 
> this setting's relatively happy but i can only imagine it ending with the watch going to shit  
> and gabe becoming obsessed with demons to the point of going mad :)c


End file.
